Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 35: Come Home With Me Tonight
It was difficult not to gloat over the things her…friends…brought to her from Flemeth's hut. Morrigan knelt by the big chest, smiling at the contents within.
Yes, they were her friends. Some of them, anyway. Bronwyn and Tara, certainly. Jowan was not so bad. Anders behaved as if he loved her, though of course that was nonsense. What mattered was that they had stood by her and protected her.
All Flemeth's rare and precious books were now hers, including Flemeth's true Grimoire, possibly the most extraordinary book of magic in all Thedas.
There were various trinkets, magical and non-magical. There was a curious amulet that seemed to be more decorative than useful. There was a set of fresh robes, obviously made for her by Flemeth. Her friends were looking them over, for Jowan sensed some subtle enchantments that might be harmful. She was thinking about finding something else to wear anyway, as she was tired of all the gaping and gawking and goggling. She had taken to wearing her fine green gown here in Ostagar. It caused the underlings to treat her with more respect. Bronwyn thought she should wear light armor, but Bronwyn thought everyone should wear armor…
There had even been a bit of coin. Bronwyn and Anders had made certain that that was Morrigan's, too. Coin was a very pleasant thing to have.
Bronwyn seemed to think that Morrigan should thank everyone for their assistance, and she would do so before they all went to dinner tonight. She would show Anders more material gratitude afterward…
While they were gone to their Flemeth-slaying, she had performed her own assigned duties most diligently, shepherding that little elf. Yes, some men had followed them, pretending to be about their own business. Morrigan was not deceived for an instant. Her pride would not permit the louts to have their way in harming the girl, not when Morrigan herself had said they would not. She lurked nearby in bird form for much of the day, keeping an eye on the workshop; and then had walked back to their quarters with the girl. She had considered a visit to the quartermasters, but it was the sort of place where the wrong sort could make difficulties. Morrigan did not fear them, but she did not want to have kill some fools and then be ejected from the camp by Teyrn Loghain. That would be embarrassing, and would not suit her purposes at all. Her quarters were very comfortable, and she preferred that her food be prepared by servitors. Better to avoid a confrontation…
And then the expedition had returned, victorious but battered. Bronwyn had slain Flemeth herself, which was most gallant and heroic. She was in a thoughtful mood, remarking that they had learned a great deal— mainly about the impotence of blades against dragonhide. The ballistae that Teyrn Loghain was so exercised about had proved of some use, though more work was needed. Everything was going as well as could be, all things considered. Morrigan felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from her. Flemeth had raised her, acted as a parent to her, taught her. Was Morrigan a monster to feel not the least regret at her passing?
"If I am, then so be it," she whispered to herself. "For I regret it not at all."
Rumor had it that the Girl Warden had slain the Archdemon. Even some of the soldiers who had accompanied the mission wanted to believe it: even those who had witnessed the transformation from woman to dragon. How could the Archdemon be worse than that mountain of flame and violence?
Loghain heard the rumor early on, since his officers were trained to give him important news whether it was what he wanted to hear or not. He called the nobles and senior officers into a briefing, and informed them—forcefully—that the creature they had killed in the Wilds was not the Archdemon, but a High Dragon that was a manifestation of the creature known as Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds. Flemeth would have been very dangerous to them, in time, but she was not, alas, the Archdemon. They had kept the mission quiet so as not to alert Flemeth to their intentions. However, they had successfully destroyed her threat, and learned a great deal about dragon-slaying tactics that would no doubt prove useful when the Archdemon eventually made its appearance.
Bronwyn attended the briefing, of course, along with Alistair, as her Second. Her testimony supported Loghain's, as she fielded anxious questions and starstruck awe.
"Yes, I am sure it was not the Archdemon. This dragon was not Tainted. I saw the Archdemon, albeit at a distance, when I was in the Deep Roads. Although a deep chasm separated us, that creature was larger, and disfigured by the darkspawn Taint. Furthermore, I spoke to Flemeth before she transformed. She was not the Old God Urthemiel, but unquestionably Flemeth, whom I had met twice before. We learned that she was planning an attack of her own. She was a powerful mage who had lived for centuries and had the power to transform into a High Dragon. She did so, and as a High Dragon she perished."
A red-haired officer called out, "Word is that you slew the creature yourself, Warden!"
Loghain smiled slightly, and nodded at the gathering. "I can confirm it. It was Warden-Commander Bronwyn who drove her sword into the creature's brain."
These were not foolish young warriors, but a hum of admiration arose from those assembled, nonetheless.
Bronwyn declined to take all the credit. "While I struck the killing blow, I would not have got near the creature without the efforts of every man and woman who took part in the expedition. Warriors, mages, archers—our estimable dwarven engineers—everyone played a part in this victory."
Arl Wulffe growled, "Not everyone jumped on a dragon's back, my girl!"
The hum grew louder, more excited. Bronwyn put up a hand.
"If the ballistae hadn't rendered the creature flightless, jumping on its back would have been a remarkably foolish thing to do!"
Loghain snorted, nearly laughing. He had thought it a mad thing to do, anyway. It was a relief that the girl had a modicum of sense.
Arl Bryland thought Loghain was too reserved in giving Bronwyn credit. The man was always taciturn, but this was an extraordinary deed.
"Your modesty does you credit, cousin, but the truth is the truth. Let all present hear me! I name this woman Dragonslayer, and I offer my esteem and honor to her."
"Hear, hear!" agreed Bann Vaughan loudly. Arl Wulffe grunted approval.
The hard-bitten officers cheered. The nobles cheered, too—even those who did not care much for the Couslands—even those who thought Bryland was using his kinship to the Girl Warden for his own advantage. Killing a dragon was something to cheer about, no matter who did it. And it was, of course, an excellent reason to party hard.
"I want to tell my story before Bronwyn leaves tomorrow," Adaia told Tara. She had thought about it, and it was something she could do. The more she thought about it, the more important she felt it was to communicate this story to people who did not understand her. She wanted important people to hear it. She wanted Bronwyn to hear it, and those Chantry types like Leliana and Cullen to hear it, too.
"Well," Tara said, finishing with her hair, "Go tell her. You should do it before we go down to dinner, because I suspect that dinner will evolve into a pretty wild party, and some of our friends might be sleeping elsewhere tonight."
"You tell her."
"Melian Tabris, you go right over there and do it yourself!" Tara commanded, pointing to Bronwyn, who was slipping on the cleaner of her two Warden tunics. Tara thought briefly that it was a shame that Bronwyn, who had been so generous to everyone else, had no gown to wear to this celebration.
"Don't call me that," Adaia sulked. "I don't want to be Melian anymore. All right…I'm going."
Bronwyn was chatting with Brosca as Adaia approached. The cheerful dwarf girl nudged the Commander who looked up, smoothing her hair.
"Did you want something, Adaia?"
"Uhh…I was thinking I'd like to tell my story before you go away. I might forget it if I have to wait until you come back."
"Ooo! A story!" Brosca cheered. "Hey! Astrid! Oghren! Yeah, you, Oghren! Get your lazy backside over here. The kid wants to tell a story. Good idea, telling it before dinner," Brosca pointed out pragmatically. "Likely we'll all be drunk as King Valtor tonight!"
"People riding with me tomorrow had better be fit by daybreak," Bronwyn warned, only half-seriously. Her team seemed fairly levelheaded, and one of the mages could use a rejuvenation spell in case of emergency. All her people deserved a celebration.
"All right," she said to Adaia. "The cooks should not summon us so very soon. I wanted to call everyone together, anyway."
They gathered by the big fireplace, and found chairs or chests to sit on, or leaned against the wall, or perched on the sills. Brosca sat cross-legged on the floor. Scout sat beside her, about the same height. She scratched his doggy chin, and he let her. The small stone-smelling packmate was all right.
Bronwyn stood by the fire, and raised her hand for silence.
"Before dinner, there are some things that need to be said. First, I hope not to be gone long. My team and I will seek out Keeper Zathrian and his clan, find out where they stand on the treaty, and return as soon as possible. It's hard to say how long that will take. While I am gone, Senior Warden Alistair is in charge, and he has my full confidence. Yes, you do, Alistair: don't make that face!"
Everyone laughed, even Alistair, who blushed. Adaia felt sorry for him, and thought about patting his hand, but then decided that would be too bold. Carver, sitting near Adaia, scowled, He was a bit jealous of Alistair. The Senior Warden was only a few years old than he was, and he had the full confidence of the Girl Warden, Lady Bronwyn Cousland. Alistair reminded him of his brother Adam, who Mother and Father treated as if he practically perfect in every way. Not that he could complain to Cullen about Alistair. They were best friends, after all. Carver wished he was going with Lady Bronwyn, so he could show her how much better he was than that blond ponce Alistair...
Bronwyn went on, "None of us knows when the Archdemon will rise. I don't sense anything imminent, and none of you have said anything to the contrary. If we can continue to contain the darkspawn threat here in the far south, then we are doing our jobs as Wardens. Everyone keep your ears open for rumors of darkspawn incursions elsewhere. We know there are other entrances to the Deep Roads. It's possible the Archdemon might send a sortie up through one of them. We can't watch them all."
She gestured at Morrigan. "Morrigan has something she wants to say to all of you."
The witch almost sighed loudly, and then realized that might be construed as discourteous. Instead, she rose, arranging the skirt of her green gown, and stood before them to say what had to be said. Anders was beaming at her, so it would certainly be worth her while.
"I thank you all for your courage and skill at arms. Flemeth is no more. 'Tis good news to me, as I shall be safe hereafter from her scheming. It seems only reasonable for me to point out that you are now safe from her too, since her schemes were legion and would no doubt have affected you at some point. Nonetheless, I do thank you, most sincerely."
Mutters of "You're welcome," "No problem," sounded in reply. Oghren grunted, "You should thank me. My arse is still burning from where that stone-cursed thing breathed on me!"
Brosca gave him a shove. "Next time, don't try mooning a dragon!"
"Or anything, ever," Alistair muttered, grimacing.
Sten remarked, "It was an interesting battle. Much was learned. My people believe dragons to be extinct. That they are not is news that should be reported to the Arishok."
"There might not be any more dragons," Cullen pointed out. "That Flemeth creature was some sort of abomination. While she took the form of a dragon, she wasn't really a dragon. Maybe real dragons are extinct."
"After fighting her," Leliana shuddered, remembering her pain, "I certainly hope so."
Morrigan shook her head. "You do not understand the magic of shape-shifting. When Flemeth was transformed, she was a real dragon. And the Archdemon certainly is one. The lore of the Tevinters states clearly that the Old Gods were dragons: intelligent, powerful dragons. We know that the Archdemon exists. Presumably at least two more of the Old Gods still sleep. Thus, there are certainly dragons."
"We need more of those ballistae," Astrid spoke up. "If the dragon's wing had not been damaged, it could have flamed us to cinders from the sky."
Bronwyn agreed. "More ballistae are under construction, with additional improvements. We also need to consider our own weapons. At the officers' briefing, Teyrn Loghain discussed needed upgrades to weaponry. My dragonbone dagger was far more effective against dragonhide than my silverite sword, until I found a particularly vulnerable spot."
"And some spots were more vulnerable than others!" Zevran said. "When I was being trained, we used outlines with the kill points marked. We should consider the nature of the dragon carefully, and learn its kill points, too."
"That is an excellent suggestion," Bronwyn said. "You're in charge of it, Zevran!" They all laughed. "Really, draw the outline, and everyone needs to think about what worked and what didn't. I expected the belly to be softer, but it wasn't. The joints, though, were weak spots. Anyplace where the scales did not overlap is a possibility. That was what I found at the back of its head, where the neck joined."
"I'll help him!" Carver volunteered. If he played his cards right, he might find himself with a real dragonbone sword. Dear brother Adam had never even seen dragonbone.
While they were talking, Loghain and a few of his officers appeared at the door. Loghain paused, intending to ask Bronwyn to come down to dinner with him. She appeared to be having a meeting with her people, but she saw him and gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment. He motioned that she should go on, quietly enough that most of her people, watching her, did not notice him. She smiled, and changed the subject.
"Dinner will be announced soon, so enough of shop-talk! We have an entertainment. Another companion has a story for us! Adaia was good enough to have hers ready before some of us head north tomorrow. Please give her your full attention."
She took the big chair by the fire that Alistair had been holding empty for her, and then Adaia stepped forward, nervous but determined. Loghain was curious. He had heard something about the Wardens and their stories, and he moved into the room and took a seat by the door. One of his officers had pulled out a piece of parchment was was scribbling on it in pencil. It was Darnley, who was quite a good artist. Loghain supposed that the scene before him could be considered picturesque: the beautiful Girl Warden, lounging in a throne-like chair by the fire, a dog and a fierce little dwarf by her feet. Beside her, her loyal and handsome Second, a secret son of a king. On a low stool on her other side was that Orlesian bard of hers, whispering to the pretty elf mage standing behind her. A tall and serious Templar leaned against the wall. An even taller and more serious qunari glowered from the shadows in a corner. A pair of lovers, the man tall and blond, the woman dark and exquisite, looked into each other's eyes. On a nearby bench, a bearded dwarf quaffed a tankard of ale, while a handsome dwarf woman leaned forward, interested in the story. A tattooed Dalish elf, hair cropped close, crouched with casual alertness, oiling her bow. Their new young boy fidgeted near Bronwyn, eager for her notice. Farthest away, the maleficar Jowan sat, looking longingly at the rest, clearing wishing to be accepted as a friend and equal. Before them all, casting dancing shadows, stood the little city elf Adaia, long ears peeking through her shining hair.
"You may not like my story," she whispered.
"Didn't hear you!" Oghren rumbled. "Speak up!"
"Some of you may not like my story!" she nearly yelled. Turning red, she lowered her voice a little. "But this story is important to me. My friend Nola told it to me, and I think she made it up, like a lot of stories she told. Even you elves might not like it, or think it's a proper elven story, because it doesn't take place in a forest or an ancient palace. It's an Alienage story, so for me it's a story about home. I don't know if I like it either, but it's important to me, and it's important to me that I tell it to you."
Adaia's story of The Handful of Rushlights
There was once a little girl who was wandering the streets of the Alienage one First Day Eve. It was nearly sunset, and it was so cold that the sewage in the gutters was frozen solid. Everyone who had a home to go to was eager to go there and stay there.
And it was First Day Eve after all. The rich people were roasting chickens with dried apples. Others were stewing pumpkin and salt pork. Even the poorest people would have hot bean soup with a bit of smoked mutton, and barley bread to dip in it. The good smells drifted the length and breadth of the Alienage, all the way to the gates on either side.
The girl lived with her aunt and her aunt's husband, because her father and mother were dead, and her old grandmother had died too. That was when things that were already bad got a lot worse for her.
She had been sent out into the street to sell rushlights, as she was every day. Shems can afford candles, but rushlights are popular in the alienage. All you need is a penny's worth of rushes and some melted fat to dip them in, and they give a good steady light for a quarter of an hour. The girl's aunt made them now, but they were not as good as the ones her grandmother used to make.
That day, she had been told that she must sell enough rushlights to bring home ten coppers, but she had earned only seven. She was afraid of the beating her uncle would give her, so she found a corner when one house stuck out a little in front of another and she crouched there, drawing her feet up under her.
Slowly, it grew dark. The street emptied, and the little girl was alone with her handful of rushlights.
Her curling hair was sprinkled with snowflakes, and the tips of her ears were numb. Her hands were red and blue with cold, because she had no gloves. Her grandmother had knit her some thick woolen mittens, but her aunt had taken those away and given them to her own child.
She thought about going to the hahren's house, because she knew he would give her something to eat; but he would take her home later, and her uncle would beat her where it didn't show. If she went to the orphanage, they would send her home without taking the trouble to feed her. She had tried that before.
Her hands were so stiff that she thought that one rushlight would do her good. She struck her flint against the wall, and lit a rushlight. How it blazed up! It burned with a bright clear flame when she held her hand around it. The light changed, and it seemed to the little girl that she was sitting in front of a big, warm fire. She watched it popping and crackling, but just as she stretched out her feet to warm them, the fire vanished, and she was left sitting with a burnt-out rushlight in her hand.
She struck her flint and lit another one. It blazed up and where the light fell on the wall next to her, she could see right through it. She saw a big table with sturdy benches. A family was sitting around the table, and the mother was dishing out a hearty helping of redfish stew into everyone's bowls. The stew smelled so good that the poor child leaned closer. Her nose touched the cold wall, and the rushlight burned out.
So she lit another rushlight. This time she was sitting in a room lit for a feast. Rushlights shone all around her, warming her. She stretched out her hand and the lights went up and up into the sky. Her rushlight went out, and she realized that she was looking at the stars. One of the stars fell, and made a bright streak of light across the sky.
"Someone is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother had told her, "When a star falls, a soul is going to the Maker."
Now she lit another rushlight, and this time she saw her grandmother in a circle of flame. She saw her clear as clear could be, looking so kind and happy.
"Grandmother," the little girl begged. "Take me with you! I'm afraid you'll vanish when the rushlight goes out!"
To keep her grandmother with her, she lit her whole handful of rushlights. A circle of light surrounded and warmed her. Her grandmother had never looked so beautiful. She lifted the little girl in her arms and together they soared away, far, far above the world, to a place where there was no more cold or hunger or pain.
In the morning, the little girl still sat there in the corner between the houses, frozen dead, with a handful of burnt-out rushlights in her hand.
The elves of the Alienage shook their heads sadly. Some said, "She must have tried to warm herself." And others added, "She's in a better place now."
Her aunt found the seven coppers in the girl's pocket and put them in her own. The morning after First Day, the rubbish men came to take her away, for there was no money for a pyre. Her body was still frozen as they tipped her into the sea.
Silence held every man and woman in the room in its grip. Danith strode away from the group and frowned out the window, terribly upset. How could elves treat a precious child in such a way? "It must be the influence of the shemlens they live among," she muttered.
Equally upset, Alistair burst out, "That's horrible!"
Adaia's face crumpled. To forestall tears, Tara said, "You told it beautifully, but it's so, so sad…"
"Yes," murmured Leliana. "Very sad. Still, sometimes one needs a story that pierces the heart. The story is composed very well, with many fine and poignant details." She murmured to herself, "especially the falling star, which I shall use in future…"
"I think," Bronwyn ventured, uneasy at showing how much the story had moved her, "that we were all expecting the story to end with someone coming to rescue the little girl."
Adaia stared at her blankly. So did the dwarves. Brosca especially, had no problem accepting that some children would never be saved. She had seen plenty of them herself in Dust Town. Stone knew that she had nearly been one of them.
"Children die," Morrigan said coldly. "Children die every day, and the world goes on. No one can pretend it is not so."
"Then that is a scandal," pronounced Sten, his face a storm of disapproval. "A scandalous waste of your most valuable resources. Children are the future, and cannot be wasted in such a way. If you southern peoples do not want your children, send them to the Qunari, and we will train them according to their abilities, and put them to useful labor."
Anders spoke up, and asked Adaia, "Do you really believe that child is in a 'better place?'"
Adaia burst out, "No! I mean...I hate that kind of talk! It makes me crazy! What kind of world is it when people say a child is better off dead?"
Uncertainly, Cullen began, "That Chantry says—"
Adaia interrupted him, "My friend Nola died begging the Maker to save her, and he didn't! She made up the story, so I leave that bit in, and it really is the sort of stupid thing people say, but I hate it!" She took a deep breath. "I hate it. It's wrong."
Zevran said softly, "Mia bella, your story was beautiful, and moved many hearts. That is why everyone is so stirred by it. Perhaps none of us will ever again dismiss a beggar child so easily, " He bowed grandly. "I thank you."
"Yeah," Brosca agreed. "I liked that story. Usually in Dust Town the kids just starve to death, or the parents put the babies out in the Deep Roads if they can't afford to feed them." She asked Cullen, "Does freezing to death hurt?"
"It was a fine story," Bronwyn decided. "Thank you Adaia. I shall never forget it."
Alistair nudged Bronwyn, and jerked his head toward the door. Bronwyn rose, politely smiling, but still somewhat distressed.
"Teyrn Loghain!"
All her people either looked at the floor or stole little significant glances at each other; or they stared shamelessly, not wanting to miss a thing. Loghain's officers, deplorably, were only marginally better behaved. Alone among them, Ser Cauthrien was coolly impassive. Bronwyn was immensely grateful to her.
Loghain gave Bronwyn a faint smile. "They sounded the dinner bell some time ago. I thought Wardens were always hungry."
"We are always hungry, my lord," Bronwyn laughed, falling into step beside him. "I want to eat heaps."
Heaps were certainly being served, along with seemingly unlimited amounts of wine and ale. Warden and soldiers and engineers fell to with gusto. The wine served at the head table was the good kind, too, and Loghain unbent sufficiently to permit the servant to fill his goblet for the fourth time. He was feeling uncommonly relaxed, and thoroughly enjoying the company of the young woman beside him.
Bronwyn, on the other hand, was not relaxed at all. Loghain's presence disturbed her. They were so crowded together at dinner that they touched, over and over again. When his thigh touched her it was most distracting: like little hot darts of lightning. There was a ridiculous warmth in her belly, seeping down, luring her into mindless complacency—
She would have none of it. She was in control of herself. She was not a little elf girl to be bullied or forced by an arrogant noble; she was not a silly woman to be seduced by a cup of wine and a reputation. She had trusted him, and he had insulted her, and she had not forgotten or forgiven him. She sipped slowly at her wine, and brooded over it.
She had always been what people called "a good girl." She was the greatest prize in Ferelden—at least before she became a Grey Warden. Mother and Father had told her that, over and over again. It was important to do nothing foolish to lessen her worth. People loved to gossip, and would make up ridiculous, even malicious stories on the slightest provocation. The daughter of the teyrn of Highever must be above reproach.
Even when she was far away, she learned that people were still gossiping about her. Here and there—even from Duncan—she had heard what had been said, all those long years when she been kept from Court, proving herself a good girl to Father, over and over again. People had said she had borne a bastard, that she had a disgusting disease, that she had gone mad, that she was half-witted, that she was besotted with the King.
A good girl. She had been good—oh, yes—and it hadn't protected her reputation at all. It mattered not a particle that she listened to Mother's advice about never being overly friendly to Rory Gilmore and the rest of the young knights and squires at Highever.
"It wouldn't be fair to them, dearest," Mother had explained. "You mustn't raise hopes you cannot fulfill. You are so pretty that it's only natural for young men to be attracted to you, and want to…kiss you. If you flirted with them, you could make them very unhappy and uncomfortable."
Gently, Mother had explained certain things about men to Bronwyn: how distressing men found it to be refused when a woman had aroused…expectations. Nice women…true noblewomen…did not do those things to men. Those were the sorts of heartless tricks used by wicked Orlesian females to manipulate men…and even other women.
"But you flirt with Father," Bronwyn had pointed out, "I've seen you get your way by teasing him and batting your eyes!" She refrained from adding "and losing your temper…"
"Your father is my husband," Eleanor Cousland smirked. "It's not like I'm making him any false promises. When you're married you'll understand."
And her tutor Aldous had played his part, too. Bronwyn loved to hear about the great women of Ferelden: about the Rebel Queen Moira, Haelia Cousland, Lady Shayna, Rowan of Redcliffe; even about Sophia Dryden before she went to the bad and induced the Grey Wardens to attack the rightful king. She learned about great women of other lands, too: the Assassin Queen of Antiva, the ruling Empresses of Orlais, the devious female magisters of Tevinter.
What successful women leaders had in common, she discovered, was that their personal lives were generally chaste—or at least appeared to be, and when they ceased to be chaste, things went rapidly downhill for them.
Soldiers, Aldous had taught her, might enjoy the company of loose women, but they generally did not respect them, nor would they follow them with the kind of blazing loyalty inspired by a young widow like Moira or an avowed virgin like Empress Blanchefleur.
Uncomfortably, she wondered how much of the virtue she prized in herself was inspired by fear: fear that she would bear a bastard; fear that she would disappoint her parents, or make herself a laughingstock; fear that she would be despised by her social inferiors; fear that she would lose the respect of those she led. Fear, too, that the man she allowed liberties would lose interest, or prove false, or hold her up to ridicule. It had prevented her from seeking comfort from Alistair or Cullen or any of the attractive men she commanded. She was not likely to change that now.
She studied her cup, and held on to her self-control as Loghain's thigh brushed against hers again. If he ever kissed her, and then mocked her; if she offered him her heart, and he disprized it—she would kill him. There, that was a solution. It might be ridiculous, and the result of too much wine, but the determination made her feel much, much better. If he betrayed her, she would kill him.
"This, I swear," she muttered.
Loghain, tossing the torpid Scout yet another treat, gave her a brief, puzzled glance.
After two hours of feasting and drinking, Arl Leonas Bryland was red-faced, and more than a little past his measure. Loghain regretted that he had let the man know of the plan to send Bronwyn to Denerim first. He clearly could not be trusted with wine in him.
"Call on Habren, won't you, Bronwyn? I've got a letter for her. And for my boys, too. They need to know I'm thinking of them. Werberga means well, but she lets Habren get away with too much. Their tutor is supposed to put a rein on that with Corbus and Lothar. I'll wager the boys would be thrilled to be visited by the Girl Warden…"
Werberga was his older sister. Loghain repressed a shudder. The woman had spoiled the daughter rotten, and was probably doing likewise with Bryland's young sons. The man should have married again, but word was that Werberga wouldn't have it, and had made the lives of any woman Bryland courted a living hell. She should have long ago been put in a coach and deposited at a distant manor, but Bryland was tender-hearted…
Vaughan was flushed with wine, too, and with other things, very likely. He was glaring at the Wardens, most especially at the elf girl. It was lust, certainly, but rage was there as well: rage and naked cruelty. Some people could not bear for anyone to thwart their desires. It was not uncommon among nobles.
Quite a few of the Wardens were beyond tipsy as well. The little dwarf girl was sitting in the former Templar's lap, playing with his hair. For his part, the Templar was gazing longingly at the pretty elf mage—Tara—yes, Tara, the one Bronwyn thought so well of. She was flirting with the blond Crown assassin. His attentions were divided among nearly every female at that table, but perhaps he gave Tara more notice than the others.
The dwarf warrior Oghren's eyes were glazed, and he would probably be under the table fairly soon. The exiled dwarf princess was far more in command of herself, and was talking, quietly and forcefully, to Alistair: touching his arm for emphasis. The boy blushed every time. Loghain snorted into his goblet. Not much like his father. Maric would have had the woman in a dark corner by now. Of course, she was not an elf...
"Oh, how nice!" Bronwyn said to Bryland. "Leliana is going to sing. She's wonderfully talented."
The bard was going to sing. She had her lute with her and was strumming opening chords. Maker's Breath! She was comely creature—for an Orlesian—and had a fine voice, he supposed. Being a bard was what Bronwyn had taken her on for, after all. He scowled at the bottom of his cup, annoyed that he could not find fault. And she was singing an old Ferelden song, too. He might as well relax and enjoy it.
A holiday, a holiday,
The first one of the year
King Arland's wife came to the Chantry
The priests' singing for to hear.
And when the chanting it was done
She went out the Chantry door
And there she saw Ser Kerran Loys,
And desired him full sore.
"Come home with me
Ser Kerran Loys,
Come home with me tonight.
Come home with me
My own true love,
And sleep with me tonight."
Of course it all ended badly, with the two lovers waking to find King Arland standing at the foot of the bed. There followed a bloody duel, and the Queen pinned to the wall with the King's longsword. It was quite a beautiful song, though, and the chorus was bewitching.
"Come home with me
Ser Kerran Loys,
Come home with me tonight.
Come home with me
My own true love,
And sleep with me tonight."
Bronwyn toyed with her own goblet, and would not meet his eyes. She was blushing. He had a great deal to say to her before she left in the morning, and if she was no longer hungry, then there was no more reason to remain at the table, drinking themselves into insensibility.
The song was ending, to great applause. Loghain caught Bronwyn by the hand.
"Come with me."
Her shocked face revealed that she had been listening to the song. He could not resist a brief smirk. Then he pulled himself together and rose, not letting go of her hand. "Come. I want to give you Anora's letter. And you need a secure cipher."
Most of the hall was wrapped up in private concerns, and was just this side of losing all restraint. Loghain tugged her hand again, liking the feel of it. She wanted him, did she not? They should certainly get to know each other better before she went galloping off again. She was, he admitted to himself, not just a desirable young woman, but his most important ally. He must bind her to him by any means possible.
"Bring your goblet," Loghain said. "In case you want to throw it at me again."
Bronwyn decided that he had definitely had too much to drink. She considered setting Scout on him, but the mabari was asleep at her feet and snoring. There was no help to be had there. Struggling against Loghain would only attract more attention. He was closer to her than a man had a right to be, and she had caught the scent of him all through dinner: the musk of an active man, mixed with good, plain soap and the lavender his shirts were done up with. She went upstairs with him, her hand still in his.
Loghain closed the door behind them. Bronwyn very casually withdrew her hand and moved away, so nervous that she felt ready to jump out of her own skin.
How tiresome men were! And for all that he was a hero, and a splendid warrior, and even quite a bit cleverer than most people she knew, Loghain had turned out to be…a man. After a few cups of wine, men were ready to fight… or feel up the first girl that came their way. Loghain seemed to be more the latter sort.
Perhaps she was being too harsh. He did not seem the sort to force himself on just any girl. He had standards, presumably, since he was not gossiped about, other than in connection with Bronwyn herself.
She set her goblet down. Loghain lifted the decanter on his desk and raised his brows at her.
"I don't think either of us needs any more to drink," she said flatly.
That drew a rueful smile from him. "Perhaps not."
Loghain studied her, pushing away the wine's pleasant haze. The girl was as skittish as an ill-treated mare, wary as a trapped vixen ready to bite, glaring at him as if she expected him to make a grab for her, and clearly not liking the idea.
Fancy him she might, but she was also young, and proud, and clearly inexperienced. Rowan had been like something like her: the Rebellion had given Arl Rendorn Guerrin's daughter plenty of practice at leadership and swordsmanship, and done nothing at all for her self-image as an attractive woman. He needed to put Bronwyn at her ease, somehow. Well, then, to business: she seemed to have no trouble with that.
He unlocked his correspondence chest. "Here is the letter for Anora. In it, I tell her that I trust you, and urge her to do likewise. I lay out the plot, and how you have thwarted it thus far. Put this letter into no one else's hands," Loghain said sternly. "It must reach her."
"So it shall," Bronwyn assured him.
"While you're at it," he said, handing her two more sealed parchments. "Here's a letter for my seneschal in the city, and another to the commander of the Palace Guard. They are loyal to me, and you can rely on them. And here," he said significantly, adding a thin parchment to the pile, "is a cipher for you to use if you need to send me a message. What else do you plan to do when you're in Denerim?"
She had thought it over at length. "After I see the Queen, I'll be largely at her disposal. Depending upon what she needs, I also hope to make a thorough survey of the Warden Compound and see what could be of use to my people. I've promised to pay a social call on my Bryland cousins. There's certainly no harm in keeping their friendship. I want to visit Master Wade and give him a number of commissions. I have an idea for some weapons to use against dragons, and he's not afraid of innovation."
Loghain snorted, "Hardly!"
"I was thinking of a kind of short lance or spear. Something with a long tip and good penetration. Maybe something that will tangle up their feet or their wings. Also, something to help me keep my footing if I'm demented enough to jump on one again."
He gave her a dark half-smile, that for some reason filled her with confidence. He understood what she was getting at, and thought her ideas were all right.
"Then," she said, "I'll scour the libraries and bookshops of Denerim for anything about the Nevarran dragon-hunters. I can have my people do quite a bit of that. Meanwhile," she said, taking a breath, "I also want to see my brother. If I can make time to help him in any way, obviously I want to."
"Where does your brother stand in all this?" Loghain asked, light eyes fixed on hers.
"Beside me in all things. The Couslands will not endure an Orlesian marriage. Fergus will have his rightful revenge on Howe, and then bring the North in line. Chaos is what the Orlesians wanted, but he will yet see them disappointed."
He gave him a brusque nod, satisfied. It was the most he could hope for. He regretted the loss of Howe, who was a brave and cunning man. Had he not fallen prey to a bard, he would have been a valuable ally. The die was cast, however: Loghain could not have both Couslands and Howes. He must choose wisely; and in this situation there was really no longer any choice at all. "And Alistair will lead the Wardens remaining in Ostagar. I hope he's up to it."
"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. We've already worked a way to arrange scouting. Of course, I want to keep someone in camp at all times, unless Adaia actually goes on patrol with them."
"Adaia...also known as Melian Tabris. Vaughan won't let go of his vengeance. Do you know what the issue is there?"
"He wanted to rape her, and she got away. Her cousin and friends were not so lucky, and some of them died. He still wants to rape her, and then kill her, I suppose."
"That's her story?"
"It's easy enough to verify. She gave me the name of the priest who officiated at her wedding—the one that Vaughan broke up in his quest for 'elf whores.' I shall find Mother Boann and ask her for her version. Something else on my to-do list in Denerim. At any rate, I already believe Vaughan to be a genuinely vile human being. Yes, yes, we need him. I understand."
"Bronwyn," Loghain sighed. "When you know the things I know about the Ferelden nobility, you'll understand that most of them are genuinely vile human beings. Nonetheless, I'll keep an eye on Vaughan, and your little seller of rushlights as well."
He picked up his chair and moved it over to another by the fire, kicking it to face his own. "Sit with me," he said, gesturing to the girl. He realized immediately how that sounded. "Please."
Cautiously, she sat, pressed against the back of her chair, her head cocked like a wary she-wolf. He leaned forward, hands gripping the arms of his chair, his knees nearly touching hers.
"You need to make more Wardens," he told her, very seriously. "And you need to recruit more Wardens capable of taking the initiative, not charity cases. If you find ways to jump on the back of a raging dragon, share them with your people. The duty of slaying the Archdemon is not yours alone." He saw her frown, and pressed the matter.
"Yes, I noticed that it was you who found the way to strike the killing blow against Flemeth. You told me what that means when facing the Archdemon. There is no reason why it must always be you. Do not withhold these tactics and weapons from your people, in order to protect them. They are not children. Respect them, and give them their chance at honor. For that matter, one of the mages might have got lucky with one of those concussive spells."
Bronwyn looked annoyed, and then nodded reluctantly. "You do understand that I am their leader, and that I am not going to hang back and send someone off to die simply to preserve my own life?"
"Of course I do!" he snapped. "On the other hand, you don't have to stage-manage your own death! Let the others take their chance. Take your own, for that matter, but don't treat the sacrifice of the Wardens as your personal death sentence. What if something happened to you that would make you unable to face the Archdemon when it comes? Would you leave your people unarmed out of your own vanity?"
'Don't call me vain!" she shouted, trying to rise. He caught her wrists, holding her down.
"What would you call it? Do you believe that you are the destined Hero of legend: the only warrior of your generation capable of saving the world?"
"You make me sound ridiculous!" She glared at him, but she was not rejecting his words.
"If you were so arrogant as to believe such a thing, then you would be. I think you're a more sensible girl than that. A Grey Warden must kill the Archdemon, and in so doing, die. I understand that. It might well be you, but it might also be another. In that case, the Blight will be over, and what will you do then, Bronwyn Cousland? What will you do with yourself after the war?"
She could not bear the intensity of his gaze. "What if there is no 'then?'" she whispered. "What if there is no 'after?'"
"There always is." He gripped her harder and gave her a little shake. "There always is. I've been through this. I know what it's like to have your life consumed by war, and not be able to see beyond it. I know what it's like to feel that this —this—is the way it's always going to be. But there is a future, and you have to be ready for it. Maker knows I wasn't, and I was caught flat-footed when there were no more Orlesians to skewer. But I found other duties, other ways of living. So will you."
She sighed, and her gaze drifted away into the shadows. "I will always be a Grey Warden. There is no escape."
"Yes," he agreed, very patiently, "but you will have done your duty, and can leave both leadership and active duty to others. What is Weisshaupt going to do? Send the Warden guard after you? I think not. Once the Blight is over, there is no reason you cannot make what you wish of the rest of your life." He paused, and then took the plunge. "You made a bargain with your father: one that he planned to discuss with me, I understand. Are you still interested in it?"
Shocked, she felt herself burning with embarrassment. "Who told you that?"
"Your cousin Bryland really cannot be trusted with information after two cups of wine. We must both remember that in future. Your father did not, and confided in him. He told me. He expected your brother Fergus to broach the matter with me months ago. In fact, he thinks your brother did so."
"Let go of me," she said suddenly. He did, and she covered her face with one hand, leaning wearily on the arm of her chair. He gave her a moment to compose herself, wondering if she had completely changed her mind. If so, it was better to face it at once.
"My father," she said, her voice muffled and bitter, "My father never intended to keep his word to me. Another thing I discovered in Denerim that night. He had other plans for me—plans he preferred to my own. I do not wish to discuss them, for they are dust and ashes now. Do not speak of my father's plans."
"Then what of your own…wishes?"
She lowered her hand and looked at him, her eyes red and damp. "I wish that none of this had happened. I wish I could go home." She waved a hand, silencing the wise words ready on his lips. "I know…I know. Yes, if you are…interested, then so am I. I've already invested years and years in you, after all! It's expecting a bit much for me to start over with someone else. But," she glared at him, a single tear trailing down her scarred cheek like a glittering jewel in the firelight, "you must never, ever call my family traitors! Not ever again!"
"I understand," he murmured, reaching out to wipe the tear away, his finger stroking down the scar to the fine, firm jaw.
"I won't live more than thirty years at the most," she said.
"I don't expect that much myself," he replied.
"—and I may be barren," she whispered, acknowledging the grief of it. "It's a Warden thing."
"I have a child," he pointed out. "I am looking for a friend and a companion. A…lover," he admitted. "Not a breeding mabari. Speaking of which, do you think Scout will approve?"
"If you keep stuffing him with smoked boar," she smiled. She scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I think I would like some wine, after all."
He went to his writing table, and poured the strong Antivan red into her goblet. She followed him and watched, silent and tense, her breath quick. They gravely touched their cups together, the silver ringing out a plangent note. They drank.
She hardly knew herself. After a time he took her cup away from her and set it aside. Then he moved closer, and she felt him against her, a man against a woman.
His strong arms held her fast, the heat of his body joining with hers, the pulse in his throat flickering against her mouth. Somehow his lips were testing hers, drawing her will from her. The soft sound she made must have pleased him, for the kiss deepened, lengthened, and the pressure against her became intoxicating and urgent.
"Wait," she murmured. "Wait." He looked down at her, pale eyes fierce and hungry. She licked her lips. "If you laugh at me later…if you betray me…if you forsake me, I shall stab you right through the heart."
"Of course," he agreed gently, drawing her into the darkness of his bedchamber. He must be gentle. This must go well. And she was not the first virgin to come to him, after all. "Of course. And I'd do exactly the same." The words pained him, even in this moment of victory; a memory of Maric, grief-stricken, pinning the traitor Katriel to the wall with his sword. "Right through the heart."
Thanks to my reviewers: callalili, Rosabell, demonicnargles, The Moidart, DanteAlighieri1308, Eva Galana, Have Socks Will Travel, Kira Kyuuketsuki, almostinsane, Shakespira, Remenants, mutive, Zute, Josie Lange, Morwen33, Cobar713, Juliafied, Blinded in a bolthole, GLCW2, JackOfBlackesX, Menamebephil, euromellows, Jenna53, Angurvddel, xJanelex, Lehni, Judy, Costin, Vomathg, chocolatebrownie12, Samara-Draven, mille libri, Enaid Aderyn, EmbersofAmber, WellspringCD, and Iapetus.
To Valmothg: Thanks for your review. I am still considering the future of the Hawke family, because they are thinking things over now. Leandra is inclined to return home to the family "estate," and Bethany and Adam Hawke are worried about Carver running off to the army. In this AU, Adam stayed home to take care of his mother and sister. He is not a mage. However, with the Blight there and so close, going to Kirkwall is looking better and better from the standpoint of safety for his mother and sister. He will, however, want to see what's up with Carver.
By the way, is anyone going to GenCon in August?
Yes, Adaia's story is Andersen's "The Little Match Girl."
Leliana's song is adapted from Childe Ballad 81, "Mattie Groves." I did not want to slow down the narrative, but here is the complete (revised) version:
A holiday, a holiday,
The first one of the year
King Arland's wife came to the Chantry
The priests' singing for to hear.
And when the chanting it was done
She went out the Chantry door
And there she saw Ser Kerran Loys,
And desired him full sore.
"Come home with me
Ser Kerran Loys,
Come home with me tonight.
Come home with me
My own true love,
And sleep with me tonight."
"Oh I can't come home,
I won't come home
And sleep with you tonight
By the gold ring on your finger
I can tell you are King Arland's wife."
"'Tis true I am King Arland's wife,
King Arland's not at home
He is out to the far Bannorn,
Bringing the taxes home."
And the servant who was standing by
And hearing what was said
He swore King Arland all would know,
Before the sun would set.
Ser Kerran Loys, he lay down
And took a little sleep.
When he awoke, King Arland
Was standing at his feet.
Saying "How do you like my feather bed
And how do you like my sheets
And how do you like my lady,
Who lies in your arms asleep?"
"Oh well I like your feather bed
And well I like your sheets
But better I like your Lady Queen
Who lies in my arms asleep."
"Get Up! Get Up!" King Arland cried,
"Get up as quick as you can.
Ne'er be it said in Denerim
I slew a naked man!"
"Oh, I won't get up," Ser Kerran said,
"I can't get up at all,
For you have two long sharpened swords
And I but a dagger small."
"It's true I have two sharpened swords,
They cost me deep in the purse
But you will have the better of them
And I will have the worst.
"And you will strike the very first blow
And strike it like a man.
I will strike the very next blow
And I'll kill you if I can."
So Ser Kerran struck the very first blow
And he hurt King Arland sore.
King Arland struck the very next blow
And Ser Kerran struck no more.
And then King Arland he took his Queen,
He sat her on his knee
Saying, "Who do you like the best of us,
Ser Kerran Loys or me?"
And then spoke up his own dear Queen
Never heard to speak so free,
"I'd rather kiss dead Kerran's lips
Than you and your finery."
King Arland he jumped up
And loudly he did bawl
He stuck his wife right through the heart
And pinned her to the wall.
"A grave, a grave," King Arland cried,
To put these lovers in;
But bury my lady at the top
For she was of royal kin."